I Want
by Preminiscence
Summary: Even adolescent America wants something. And it's England, completely England - but it isn't America he turns to, and he believes France to be a poor substitute for what he'd willingly give.


**A/N: **_I have honestly no idea what this came from. Truth be told, I only just re-found it, lurking on my laptop. To my knowledge I just had the urge to write this, and upon re-reading it I thought "what the heck" - so here it is._

**Warnings for: **Language; adult themes... Totally, if you have an issue with even the rating it's at, inform me~

* * *

><p>How can you be so blind, England?<p>

I _want_ you.

See? I don't hold my punches. You'd think it blunt, but it's true.

I want _you_.

I'm tracing your footsteps now. I know you thought I was asleep, but France is 'round and I know what you're like.

Part of me wishes your fighting was all it was... fighting.

Because I know what I'm going to see.

It's addicting. Watching you pressed against the wall, sucking on his fingertips as he licks across your neck.

I like to imagine those are _my_ fingers. Twirling your tongue across them, tasting what I've touched in your mouth.

And it'd be _you_, England.

You'd be able to taste _yourself_ on my fingers, because that's all I want to touch.

... You won't let me.

Your neck is arched back, the top of your head grazing the wall.

I peer from my hiding-place, fascinated once again.

I'm an adolescent. Did you know that? When was the last time you_ looked_, England, truly_ looked_ at me.

I'm not a _child_.

I want you.

Your small, whimpering moans are beginning to make me hard, as always. France is pressed fast against you, and one of his hands runs underneath your shirt...

... how I long to touch your skin. _Properly_ touch it. The last time I tried, I disguised it as a sleepy stretch, nuzzling against your side.

You told me to go to bed and wouldn't look at me when I tried to kiss you goodnight on the cheek.

You're always working.

It's fucking annoying.

I watch you buck your hips as he undoes your trousers.

What do you expect from him?

Eloquence?

Comfort?

Some sick kind of twisted _love_?

_Look at me_.

I'm right here. If you'd only notice me, you'd have seen me long ago.

My hand slips beneath my pants as he pulls down his own and presses himself into you.

It looks easy.

How often have you done this, to make it look like that?

How often have you sought him when I would've made love to you in his stead?

As per usual, it's your face that gets me.

I ignore _him_, because in my mind that's me you're moaning against, clutching at as your legs shake and I pump myself hard.

You're barely upright, and there's something pathetic and poetic all at once to it.

England...

Your back arches and you grip his shoulders tight, fingers digging enough to hurt, I imagine.

What does he do to you that I can't?

You never kiss, I notice.

I've seen you in this situation many a time, but you never kiss him.

Does that cross the unspoken line?

I asked you to kiss me once.

You didn't answer.

Who will you kiss, England?

Will it ever be _me_?

You buck your hips with every thrust, and I can tell you're close. I try to match my rhythm with yours; the only harmony we still share.

As planned, I come as you come, biting back your name from my lips.

"Ameri-"

There.

There it is.

_That's_ what I hate.

You call my name.

You call my name while letting _him_ fuck you.

You won't even let me touch you, and yet you imagine _me_ nonetheless.

You're such a hypocrite, England.

When did we stop being brothers and become...

My eyes flicker to France and I can tell he bit back his own cry.

Sometimes I wonder what he means to say. Does he call for you or-

"H-hah...~"

"Don't worry, Angleterre, once again I shall say nothing, oui? It iz not so bad, really~ After all, who says I am thinking of _you_ either?"

We're all stupid.

Movement. Out of the corner of my eye. I turn, spotting a boy - looking about my age - almost identical to me.

Is he familiar? Do I know him?

'Who're you?' I mouth.

'I'm Canada'.

... Hmph. Still can't remember him.

He looks a little sad, though not at me, it seems. He's watching France, I can see how his eyes flicker, watching his movements.

Canada, hm?

... maybe... ah. _Him_. England introduced us. He's my brother, I suppose.

... we're a pretty screwed up family.

I turn back to watch England, brushing himself down and putting himself away.

I glance around. There was someone here a moment ago, wasn't there? Ah well, gone now.

I head back up to my room, and my head hurts.

England...

This can't go on.

I _need_ you.

But not like this.

I either have all of you... or...

I curl beneath the covers as you pass my bedroom door. You pause, and walk a few steps in. I can hear your footfalls.

England.

Hold me.

You sigh and walk away again.

I hate you.

Of course, later tonight I'll fake a nightmare and curl up in your bed again.

France never sleeps with you. He only shags you.

It's not _love_, England.

You're so blind.

I love you.

... But this has to end.

I want...

I want to leave.

I'll think of some story, don't you worry.

It might even sort _you_ out a bit, make you re-evaluate me.

I'm not a _child_. I need to show you that.

Even if you hate me, England, you need to see.

I...

Want you.

But I don't want this.

No matter how much we suffer, England, I'm going to leave and show you _exactly_ why I love you.

Why I need you.

Why I want you to _want_ me.


End file.
